


What a mess

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [36]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: These are the stories I wrote for last Goretober that went along with the prompts pictures. They're short, plotless, and the pictures give a bit more context, but they're a sort of character study so I'm compiling them together.





	1. Molting

**Author's Note:**

> These are the stories I wrote for last Goretober that went along with the prompts pictures. They're short, plotless, and the pictures give a bit more context, but they're a sort of character study so I'm compiling them together.

“So, what happened to it then?”

A long twig poked the curled up carcass of a spider, exoskeleton rugged and almost as if split in half. Wendy tilted her head, poked at one of the legs sticking out, the fact that another seemed to be trying to slip out from it not escaping her notice.

“Not enough water, we think. It's really dry here…” Webber sighed, all their eyes blinking out of sync as they squatted down next to her, running their talons over the spiders glazed face, slack jaws and mandibles. “Sometimes they don't make it.”

“What were they doing?” She poked the stick to another leg, this time with a newer, softer looking limb limp at its side.

“Moltin’.” At her curious expression she shot them, Webber hummed a quiet spider sound. “It's when their body gets too small, so they climb out with a new one on.”

“Do you do that?” She tilted her head, pulled the stick back to her lap.

“Yep!” Webber beamed what she took to be a spider smile, all their mandibles wiggling around as their eyes blinked at her. “It means we're growing up!”

Wendy was quiet for a moment, slowly turning to the corpse in front of them, limp legs and split skeleton, like a broken eggshell.

“Does this happen to you?”

Webber twittered, looking in thought as they patted the dead spiders head absentmindedly.

“Sometimes. But we're pretty good at molting, so not all the time!”

“And you die, when this happens?” The spiders dead white eyes stared at nothing, open and sightless, parts of its body cracked and almost as if peeled off.

“Mm-hm!” Her friend didn't seem at all fazed. “We get stuck, and then we get cold real quick, or we starve, or we de-hi-drate. It takes a bit, but don't worry Wendy, we hardly feel a thing! Or, at least we don't remember if we do!”

Wendy didn't answer for a few minutes, quiet as her friend patted the spiders corpse one last time, before shuffling their talons into its slack jaws and prodding around for its venom gland.

“What happens if I'm there, Webber? What would you like me to do?”

Her friend stilled their digging for a moment, tilting their head and drawing their limbs in close, before turning to her with what could be similar to a wide grin, if upon a spider.

“Then you can summon Abigail, of course! Then, when we wake up later, we can all play!”

Completely unfazed with what they had said, Webber yanked out the glistening pink gland, cradling it in their hands as they whistled out their victory.

Wendy sighed. She decided to keep that in mind.


	2. Guts

“Ah, WX78, I've been meaning to talk to you.”

The robot halted, weight tilting and pulling as steam eased from their joints, and for a moment she swore she could hear the faintest of sloshing.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Wickerbottom pursed her lips at their tone, or lack of, but she was quick to get to the point. They both had things to do today, and idle conversation was not a part of that.

“While it has not been much of a problem, a few of the others have come up to me concerning a rather odd series of events pertaining to their left behind corpses. I have taken it upon myself to see if there is more of a connection then we've seen so far, and you are the next I wish to speak to.”

WX78 tilted their head, the faintest of gestures to indicate that they were listening at all, and the old woman sniffed, a little offended by the lack of respect. But this was most certainly not the time to school them, and not when she was investigating either. Perhaps later she'll attempt to have them learn a few manners with Webbers lessons.

“People are coming back to their bodies to gather their left behind belongings, and are finding their death scene desecrated. So far, I've been told that the corpses are quite pillaged, though everything else is left untouched.”

“WHY DO YOU ASK ME?” The robot rumbled, straight to the point as always, and Wickerbottom cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses on her crooked pointy nose.

“As an android, you lack the complex systems an organic body contains. Have you had any such experience as of late, similar in nature perhaps? If someone is going around thieving away with flesh and wires, there will be a problem no doubt.”

WX78 was quiet for a moment, the quiet, dulled sounds of clicking and clunking inside them muffled almost, before their frame shuddered and their empty gaze fell back upon her. 

“I DO NOT DIE ENOUGH FOR SUCH ISSUES.” There was a tone there, hidden away, almost in distaste and arrogance, but the apathetic, emotionless voice overtook it quickly. “I WILL HAVE NO PART OF THIS.”

They turned away, heavy clunking and steam bursts as their metal chassis rose and fell, the weight redistributing once more with a soft, almost wet sound inside their large barrel chest.

“Now wait just a minute-”

“NO.”


	3. Sacrifice

“Hey kiddo, what’cha got there?”

The girl turned on her heel, a sharp swing around, and the trap in her hands quivered quietly as pale white eyes turned up to meet Winona.

“A sacrifice.”

“Ah.” Winona had no idea how to respond to that, and stood there a moment, rubbing the back of her neck as Wendy blinked at her patiently. “And...where are you going with it?”

“Out. The full moon is tonight, and Abigail shall be with me soon.” She tilted her head, mouth a thin, expressionless line. “Do you care to join me?”

“Ah, no, can't at the moment. I was just gonna go check the traps you see…” Winona pointedly gave the trap in the girls hands a look. “Looking to see if we have enough to make dinner.”

“There are more, out there, trapped and waiting. I did not touch them.”

“Well, alright then!” Winona clapped her hands, making an attempt to look completely at ease and doing a good job at it really. Wendy was an odd child, one who said some rather odd stuff, but hey, as long as no one lost an eye then all was well.

And Abigail was pretty good at doing, well, whatever it was Abigail did, Winona didn't pry too much into that otherworldly type stuff, so everything was good.

A lost rabbit, but what can you do, right?

“...If you wish, I can bring back the corpse?” Wendy's lilting voice was the same as ever, but for a moment her usually stoic face flickered, changed ever so slightly before masking back up.

“It'll be edible, right?” Winona's face scrunched up at the image of an unidentifiable chunk of oozing meat, all torn to shreds by ghosts and the like, bones and fur and whiskers.

“I only require its life, nothing more.” 

“Then be my guest, bring it back around when you're done. You want me to set aside a plate for you?” The old woman would probably do that once dinner was finished, as she usually did for everyone not present, but Winona would offer either way. 

“That would be appreciated.” The girl turned away, holding the trap delicately, completely still even as a faint breeze blew through and caused Winona to huff. It was far too early in the season for the temperature to take such a turn! “Thank you.”

“No problem. Get back safe, or else, okay?”

“Okay.” Quietly, in that childlike voice of hers, and off Wendy went, a light skip in her step that hadn't been there before.

Winona scratched her head, sighing. What an odd kid.


	4. Music

_Tap, tap, tap._

Wilson sighed, palm on his scruffy cheek and elbow on his knee, watching from a fallen tree trunk as the abnormal bit of furniture hopped and tripped about, vase leaning to and fro but not at all falling as it elegantly twisted and turned itself about. The low, almost cheery tune it hummed jangled along with the lanturn it was poking at, the light dimmed into a small circle.

He didn't like leaving much up to chance, but it was almost…cute, in the way it danced about on spindly dark legs, blooming rose wide and glowing with health on its top, tablecloth swishing about cleanly.

The first time he had met it he'd been more than just a little terrified, stalked in the dark with an all too familiar melody. But now, having met it so many times now, he knew the Stagehand was perfectly harmless. It wouldn't even hurt a fly, he was fairly certain.

Obviously _some_ people thought differently, and those same people, or more like individual, didn't even think maybe they should explain their reasoning for such an irrational fear.

But no. Instead, Maxwell would much rather throw a hissy fit and forbid Wilson from bringing back the strange table to camp, so now he'd have to hike all the way out here just to say hi.

_Tap, tap, tap._

It's oddly shaped feet poked the lanterns glass, almost curiously, and in a weird way Wilson could say it was cute.

In the Glommer way of “cute”, anyway. This thing was nowhere near the level dear Chester had achieved by simply existing.

Along with the rose in its vase was a neat bouquet of light bulbs, cave ferns to help brighten it up. Wilson liked to think it enjoyed being a center of faint light, since it seemed to crave light so much but was so very afraid of more powerful sources.

It felt sort of funny, the Stagehand bending and practically bowing to him to allow for him to set those new additions in, but the overall result was one he felt good at achieving.

More light was always good; he didn't want to be caught out in the dark, not with that sharp, flowery smell in the air and that familiarity. It came off the Stagehand in waves, but at least the living furniture seemed to like his presence.

Again, not as happily or excitable as Chester, but he couldn't have everything. And Wilson wouldn't want anything to ever, ever replace Chester anyway.

As it jingled and jangled about, graceful leaps and twists and turns, Wilson wished once more that he was able to lead it back to camp, allow for a more permanent home for the poor lonely thing.

But again, _someone_ was having issues even just entertaining the idea, and causing more drama was not in Wilson's agenda.

What was Maxwell's problem with it anyway? Shouldn't it be right up his alley, shadow claws and roses and weirdly extravagant cloth?

Oh well, Wilson thought, a thin smile spreading over his features as the large thing twirled and jingled and clouded the air with its rose perfume. Guess Maxwell was just going to miss out then.


	5. Magic

“Oh, my dear, you really should be practicing!”

The girl blinked slowly, didn't meet her eyes, and her little friend shifted their footing beside her, glancing about with their many eyes.

“There is no excuse for not doing your lessons, Wendy.” Wickerbottom tsked, clicking her tongue in disapproval. She waved to Webber, all their mandibles and limbs curling in close in an unidentifiable spider expression, and quietly huffed. “Webber practices, every day, even with their responsibilities. There's no reason you shouldn't be at their level at the very least.”

Wendy gave no answer, no motive to explain herself, still looking away, arms crossed tight to her chest as Webber twittered quietly and brushed their arm to hers, some sort of attempt to bring comfort. Wickerbottom sighed, heavily, reaching up to adjust her glasses.

“Perhaps we should have more one on one sessions? I know you wish to have your own time, Wendy, but you are lagging far behind. You are a bright young lady, and truly I do not understand why this is such an issue for you.”

Silence, no answer once more, and the old woman waited patiently for a few moments more, already knowing it was a waste. Out of all the lessons and topics she teached, it was such an odd thing to have this particular subject be met with such resistance, especially from Wendy of all people! Even the ghostly apparition of Abigail showed far more interest when Wickerbottom spoke, instructed, and dear Webber was younger and less experienced but they tried, oh they did try.

Just as she was about to instruct the girl on some far more rigid instructions, rules and work to be done with Wickerbottom as instructor, the spider child chirped and hurriedly spoke instead, finally breaking under the pressure.

“Wendy doesn't want to learn Latin, Miss Wickerbottom!”

The girl swung around to shoot a look at her friend, who immediately quailed with a spider cheep of noise, limbs wavering and curling close. 

“And why do you say that, Webber? From what I know, Wendy has always had an interest in the long past and gone, and such a dead language as Latin holds so much power in this place-”

“It's because Mister Maxwell knows Latin!” squeaked Webber, shrill and full of anxiety, and the look their friend glared their way made them scuttle back, curling close and hiss quiet spider cries. “We're sorry Wendy, but we don't want you to get into anymore trouble!”

Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses, blinked her gaze slowly to the little girl, who looked rather colorful in the face, a very stark contrast to her usual expression. Being around her friend seemed to open Wendy up more and more into being and acting as the child she truly was, but whether that was a good or bad thing was not all that important to Wickerbottom. Before the girl could speak, to perhaps snap at her worried friend, Wickerbottom cleared her throat loudly.

“Miss Wendy, is this true?”

A moment of quiet, silence, as Wendy turned her pale eyes, finally, up to meet Wickerbottoms watery own, and when she spoke there was only the faintest of traces of emotion, frustration and irritation laced deep under the mask.

“...Yes.” Only one word, but it was enough for the old woman. She was smart enough to figure it out.

“My dear, if your uncle has been giving you grief as of late you can always come to me for help-”

“It's not that!” Both children spoke up, with Webbers a little more of a frustrated yelp, but then they drew their mandibles in close, fur puffing up as they realized they had interrupted their friend. Wendy glanced over to them, a strange expression in her eyes, before turning back to address Wickerbottom.

“I find the knowledge of a dead language, used here where there is no reason to do so, to be a waste of my time.”

Spoken bluntly, ignorantly, as a child would. Wickerbottom sighed again, tried to not be disappointed. Wendy was, after all, still a child, and it was quite obvious the girl found little in common with her living blood relative. And, perhaps, wanted even less to be shared between them.

“That is where you are wrong, Miss Carter.” 

The girl bristled, for only a short, short moment, before sliding away behind the porcelain mask and going expressionless once more. Wickerbottom wished she wasn't quite so stubborn at times; the world was a harsh place, and there was no reason to be so similar to an ass when there was so much opportunity everywhere. In fact, it seemed more and more that Wendy took after her uncle in terms of attitude, especially as more and more time passed by.

Wickerbottom would have to watch for this, the old woman eyeing the girl over her glasses, holding eye contact.

“There are things of this world, far beyond us, who know no mortal language, mortal words from this coil in time and space. It is never a waste of time, to learn a long gone language that may, someday, ring true to those who listen around you.”

She cleared her throat once more, mind turning on the books in her tent, on their alien whispers and proddings, far beyond what she had ever hoped or even dreamed to discover, or even hear. She thought of their words, their ink splatter languages, gone and dead and rotting, far, far older than any word she may ever hope to speak, of dying suns and stagnant air.

And she thought of their world, or where they had once come from, with its mere speck of existence, so short, so very short.

“But…” That got the girls attention, and Webber scooted back over, careful to not aggravate their already betrayed friend. “I understand what you imply, Wendy. There truly is no reason to speak Latin here, if you do not wish to.”

She gave the girl a moment to think, Webbers puffed up form slowly deflating, their many round, pale eyes looking to her in mild confusion. 

“I would never call it a waste of time, but if you have no calling to it, then I cannot force it upon you.” She looked over her glasses, gave the girl a hard, searching look. “This, however, means that there will be practices barred to you. Latin may not be the original language used here, and it does have its failings and mistranslations, but it is the closest we have to the ones beyond us.”

The girls face changed, ever so slightly, the hint of deep thought, and Webber spoke up, curling their limbs and tilting their head.

“Latin’s not the original one?”

“No dear, it is just the most suitable replacement.” At the spider childs curious look, Wickerbottom continued, folding her arms behind her back as she spoke sagely. “It is, unfortunately, the only language with the most faintest of connections to those we wish to speak to, as well as ask of.”

“Like your books, Miss Wickerbottom?”

“Yes, Webber, like my books. I do my best to understand what I can ask of them, and speak what I hypothesize are the closest true words.”

“But what of mistranslation?” Wendy spoke up, thoughtful as her gaze met Wickerbottoms. “What if you speak the wrong words?”

“Then there are consequences that I must carry upon my shoulders, until either the effects fade or my physical bodies dies.” Both children exchanged glances, unknown ones to the old woman, and she drew in a breath, not even a bit shaky. “It is a dangerous practice, to replace a language one cannot speak with a long dead word that one almost can, but it is something that must be done, to learn and grow and advance the boundaries of what is known to us in this world.”

Webbers face grew sympathetic, in the odd way of spiders, and even Wendy glanced away for a moment, tilting her head down. The children were experienced, have traveled through hardship ever since their arrival here like everyone else, and they both knew what death sounded like in each of their guardian figures voices, what dead memory shaped in tone of voice and body language. 

They knew what the dead spoke of, and have seen far too many skeletons to have to guess Wickerbottoms words. A fallacy she had no control of, and instead only greet with defeat.

“So…” Webber scratched their head with their extra limbs, sharp claws through their spider fur. “Like Mister Wilson?”

Wickerbottom cracked a thin smile, not sure whether to be offended or proud to be placed on the same level as the self proclaimed “gentleman scientist”.

“Yes, Webber, like Mr. Higgsbury.”


	6. The Hanged Man

”What is it, Wes?”

Wilson didn't even take the time to look over, eyes focused and mind ticking away, on the potato on his workbench.

That engineer had said something about electricity and vegetables, something idiotic and ignorant sounding at the time, but now that his mind was whitling with prodding questions and whispered answers he had decided that maybe Winona had some weight to her myths after all.

Or, she would, as soon as Wilson figured out how the wires were supposed to connect into the bulky battery looking...thing. She had mentioned that it wasn't complex at all, belittled him on his “lack of knowledge”, and he was going to show her up now, he knew exactly what he was doing! All he had to do was ask the right questions.

Once he got his answers he'd go about setting up a potato farm. Perhaps a bit of electricity would help lighten up camp life a little, especially since even the old woman had reached the end of her rope at this point. All that was left was downwards, and Wilson had way too many objections to that to just go along with the idea!

Absolutely absurd, and as if he'd stand by and allow Wendy or Webber to go down there so young and so suddenly, to the uncharted unknown! He wasn't daft!

It took Wilson a few minutes to realize that he'd not be getting an answer of any sort anytime soon.

Turning away from the table was a hassle, an irritating one at that, but finding the mime right up behind him, leaning ever so slightly down with that smile plastered on his face and hands folded behind his back, was enough to send his pulse skyrocketing and back to bump up against the desk, a cut off noise of surprise escaping him as he jumped.

”Wes! Personal space, please!”

The smile withered, and Wes backed off, face shifting into something apologetic as Wilson pressed his hand to his chest and tried to not go into a minor panic and/or heart attack, gasping for breath.

It was the suddenness that got to him, he assured himself, not the height. Wes was tall, in a way that seemed rather out of place at times, but it was most assuredly not a problem. At the very least Wilson was glad the man wasn't picking him up or swinging him around!

That circus friend of his had a hard time remembering it was something he was not fond of, unfortunately.

The fact that his voice had squeaked as well, broke at one point, hadn't escaped him either and Wilson scowled, even more irritated now that he wasn't being sent into a fight or flight situation. It was frustrating, to not be used to these people by now, and here he still had to work on it, in very inconvenient ways!

Facing the other, taller man now, Wilson wrinkled his nose as he looked up, huffing at the smell of fresh dirt and the traces of smudging and mud on Wes's clothing, sweater caked brown and black around the edges. Putting his hands on his hips, heart still pounding but puffing himself up to give the man an earned glare, Wilson huffed angrily.

”What in the world is so important to be bothering me when I'm working? What if I was working with sensitive ingredients, Wes, what if I had dropped or damaged them because you had come up behind me without warning, huh?” But already the rage was tapering out, especially with how the mans face wavered and faded even more, and Wilson heaved a sigh as he rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He seemed to be getting them more and more often, nowadays. “Just - what do you need, Wes?”

No answer, obviously, and it never was that easy anyway. Everyone was just so damn complicated here, and no one ever gave him simple answers, so he grit his jaw and decided to just get it over with.

The mime hesitated a split second, tilting his head as if thinking, or listening, before pulling his arms from behind his back in one swift flourish and waving his hands to Wilsons face, colorful things flashing in between his fingers. For a moment Wilson was actually interested, leaning up to try and get a good look before Wes shoved one of the things into his claws.

”Oh, what is-?”

It was a card. Or at least he thought it was one, Wilson had no keen interest in such things.

He flipped it to the back for a moment, eyeing the colors and artistry, before heaving a sigh and looking back up to the expectant mime.

”Alright then, what is this?” He bit his tongue before he could accidently say something along the lines of ‘why are you wasting my time with it’, instead watching as Wes flashed the other cards to him.

Five in total, it looked like, and the man seemed mighty pleased on his discovery, looking them over himself before waving them in Wilson's face with sudden, jerky movements. 

”Please, Wes, I don't have all the time in the world-”

Wes hurriedly showed one card to him, tapped on the bottom bit of it, and after a moment of looking between card and face Wilson finally unscrambled his mind enough to read the few words there.

” ‘The Hermit’. That doesn't answer any of my questions-”

The cards were once more shoved into his face, colorful and vague and not really all that appealing, and Wilson frowned, realizing that the other man was probably becoming frustrated with him by now.

Wes didn't show much, or say much either, but that didn't mean he was a simpleton. Wilson just had to pay enough attention to understand, that was all, even if it was a slow method.

With that thought in mind, Wilson fixed his gaze to the Hermit card, racking his brains for the right answer that would get Wes off of him-

”Tarots!” Wilson clacked his claws together in a brief snap of sound, a makeshift snap as he finally caught the correct word. “Those are tarot cards! Did you find them in the graveyard?”

Wes nodded hurriedly, smile breaking back over his face as he carefully spread the cards in his fingers to show them off. 

Wilson tried to not show his exasperation. Superstition, was all it was, and he didn't believe in such things whatsoever. As if a bunch of colorful, flashy bits of paper could tell anyone anything!

But Wes seemed rather insistent, and he'd not leave Wilson alone if he didn't at least try.

Reading a few of them was difficult, the font all funny and artsy, and their pictures really didn't capture his interest, but Wilson put on a thoughtful face for the mimes benefit.

”Yep, those are certainly tarot cards! Really interesting, Wes, thank you for showing them to me.”

He fought the internal wince; he sounded so condescending, like Wickerbottom! How awful.

But he really wanted to go back to the potato, and if this would shoo Wes away quicker then so be it.

”Now, uh, is there anything else? I really must go back to my work, you know.”

At least Wes never seemed too offended being treated this way. Sometimes even Wendy looked as if she'd throttle him in his sleep when he took that tone of voice, and he wouldn't really put it past her to be honest.

The taller man nodded, straightened back up as he looked over the cards in his hand, and just as Wilson was about to turn around to his table the man raised one hand and picked out one card with a dramatic flourish. Twirling the card in his nimble fingers, Wes's grin somehow got bigger, wider without even showing his teeth.

Then he held the card out to Wilson, looking to him expectantly. Heaving an internal sigh, Wilson played along, reaching out to grab it and look to its colorful picture.

And proceeded to almost drop it, fumble for a moment at the flash of what it almost looked like filtered through him. Wes tilted his head, smile softening, and before Wilson could open his mouth to say a damn thing the mime twirled about, cards pulled to his chest as he leapt out the tent without a single farewell.

Wilson looked after him, a little shaken, and then turned his attention back to the card in his claws.

**The Hanged Man.**

Wilson frowned, then turned it right side up. Wes had given it to him upside down, but that was probably a mistake. For a second there, he had almost thought…

No, he thought, shaking his head. Just a trick of the eyes.

Taking a moment to stuff the card into his vest pocket, Wilson turned back to his curious experiment. He had other things to do besides waste time on card games.


	7. Grudge

“I don't have to give this to you, you know.”

The faded apparition hummed in answer, quiet incomprehensible whispers, it's glow dampening ever so slightly, and Wilson turned the slow beating heart over in his claws, giving it a thoughtful look.

But it was dampening his talons, the odd slick it was sheened with like grease in his hands, the slightest hint of his own blood, and he sighed, shaking his head before he stepped forward.

The ghost hesitated, silent, and for a moment tried to pull back, but Wilson was having none of that and shoved the heart into the core of its light, the shine brightening as the beats pulsed even faster.

Seeing a form start to take shape, Wilson had the decency to look away, allow the ‘magic’ to work itself right. There was a logical reason to it, he just didn't know what that logic was just yet.

He only looked back the moment he heard the thump of a body hitting the ground, dropping like a stone. Maxwell gasped in the grass, still shaking as the new heart nudged itself into place and started to beat normally, and Wilson gave him a thin lipped frown.

“That was a stupid stunt you pulled back there. Wigfrid's not gonna be happy that I brought you back, so you better be grateful.”

The only answer he got from that was the other man pressing his face into the dirt and shivering, which made him roll his eyes. It really wasn't all that bad, coming back from the dead!

...Alright, maybe it was, Wilson shuddering at vague half memories of wandering around, trying to find someone, anyone who could help him in a state of undeath. But that didn't mean he couldn't be frustrated!

“What a waste.” He sighed, watched a moment as the older man didn't even attempt to get up, and then shook his head and made his way over. Crouching down for a moment, a quick look over to make sure nothing had gone wrong with the revival, Wilson reached over and started to tug him up to a stand.

For a moment he was dealing with dead weight, and then Maxwell seemed to get his bearings and shrugged him off, looking pale and shivery still, frail as he waved Wilson away, swaying ever so slightly.

“Will you even tell me what you did to get her in such a murderous mood? She was crowing about how far her beefalo had thrown you earlier; sounded like it might have been funny to see.”

“If it was a joke, I wasn't laughing.” Maxwells voice wavered, thin and fragile sounding as he weakly brushed off his suit, adjusted his collar with still shaking hands.

Wilson frowned, brow furrowing in minor confusion. The aftereffects didn't usually last this long.

“Was she?” He said, turning away to start the trek back to the main camp. Reviving Maxwell near everybody would sour people's moods, especially with Wigfrid showing off her bloody “souvenirs”, so taking the ghost out to a clear forest had been the best idea in Wilsons mind. It made this quick and easy, even at the expense of resources.

And his own blood, he thought bitterly. What a waste.

“...No.” 

He stopped a moment, let Maxwells plodding, stumbled gait catch up to him before continuing, keeping his pace a little slower perhaps. He didn't need the man to die from something else when he wasn't looking, not after using a heart on him.

Maxwell didn't offer up an excuse, though honestly Wigfrid seemed pretty trigger happy whenever he was just nearby. Wilson wouldn't disbelieve the truth if it turned out that Maxwell had wandered out into those plains for something and just happened to end up at the wrong end of a disgruntled beefalo and its grudge filled rider.

It happens, and quite a lot. There was nothing for Wilson to do, however, then stock up on hearts and amulets and try to keep the peace as best as he could.

But, Wilson glancing over to Maxwell's hunched form at his side, stumbling on his own feet and arms crossed over his chest defensively, still looking ill, it wasn't as if he didn't try.

But sometimes there just was no forgiveness to be had between people, and there was nothing he could do about that.


	8. Parasite

“Wickerbottom, wait, I have something I need to…”

The short man quailed under her look, stopped a moment, before realizing his mistake.

“Miss Wickerbottom, sorry. I need to ask you about something a bit-” Wilson hesitated, clicked his claws together a few times before finding the right word. “-delicate?”

The old woman gave him an odd look, but she adjusted her grip on her cane and turned to face him, attention drawn. Her silence and attentive gaze was answer enough to continue, but he dallied a moment, not quite meeting her eyes, shifting his weight from side to side.

This was embarrassing, to say the least, but he had to ask!

Finally she seemed to tire of his silence.

“Spit it out, Mr. Higgsbury, I do not have all day.”

“Of course, of course, sorry!” He felt like such a child in her presence sometimes, and that was something he never wished to feel. “I just…”

He sucked in a breath, steeled his will. Just get it over with, damn it, then he could go distract himself with something else. Like the alchemy machine!

It's been acting sort of funny as of late…

“Do you know anything about parasites?”

For a moment Wilson was almost afraid to look the old woman in the face, and he felt rather horrified. This wasn't even that important, nor was it shameful, why was he feeling so-

“Have you been eating raw meat again?”

And there it was, now he felt ashamed. Shouldn't have even brought it up.

“No no, of course not, why would I do that?” He tried to laugh, though it sounded weak, and decided to not bring up the monster meat experiment from a few weeks ago. That wasn't what he had meant to talk about anyway. “No, I mean something else, not anything like that, just…”

He sucked in a deep breath of air. 

“Isthereperhapssomethingonecancatchinthedark?”

Even he couldn't catch all that he said, and Wickerbottom raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips for a moment.

“In the dark, I mean. Is there anything, any sort of...parasite...that can be gotten by being out there without a light?”

He's been plagued by the damn thing for ages, and wondering if anyone else had it has been nagging on his mind.

“Mr. Higgsbury, are there any symptoms, perhaps, that you can describe to me? I have never heard of catching an infestation when in the dark.”

He shifted his weight, clicking his claws together as he organized his nervous thoughts, regretting everything. It's not like he really, really needed to know, and now he was heavy embarrassed bringing it up.

“It's usually painful, but only when there is no light?” Wilson raised his hand, tapped his throat for a moment. “Like there's something...slithering...in my throat, ripping up my mouth? And I get a lot of pain in my chest and gut too.”

“Never in the light, torch or otherwise?” The old woman's face was starting to come together, and Wilson slowly sighed at the realization that she must know what he was talking about.

“Yes, and it's like I'm choking, something blocking my airway. Once I find a light I just puke up blood for a bit, though I rarely die from it.” He adopted a weak grin, gaze darting away. “I try not to get caught out there often, you understand.”

“And you do not think this is the Grue?”

“Is it?” He snapped his eyes back to her, to meet WickerBottoms walled off expression. “Everyone says its claws and teeth, and I've had that happen, but this…”

“Might be something else?” she finished for him, tapping her chin in thought. After a moment she waved her hand, turned away. “I will need to think about it for awhile, Mr. Higgsbury, as well as ask around for similar experiences. For now, I suggest you keep in the light, and not take unnecessary risks. If this is a singular problem, then you do not want such an infestation to worsen.”

“Yes ma'am.” Wilson nodded tiredly, a frown crawling on his face. Not as if he's already been paranoid enough, thinking things crawled in his veins and wormed about in his guts. 

But what else did he expect, asking Wickerbottom? She really wasn't all that good at comforting worries, after all.


	9. Hanahaki

“Mister Maxwell, Mister Maxwell!”

Webber leapt up to the tall man, finally catching up to him after searching all day, and the grass woven basket in their arms bumped against their side, loaded with their new found treasure.

Mandibles twitching, churring quietly as they got their breathe back, the spider child looked up, way up this time around, and the older man looked surprised but the instant he saw them draw out one of the flowers in their talons his face closed off.

“Wendy found these, Mister Maxwell, and we helped pick them, an’ she said maybe everyone would like one, so here's yours!”

They raised up on their tip toe, holding the flower by the stem, and Maxwell curled his lip and hesitated a moment before taking it.

“While I...appreciate the gesture, Webber, where in the world did you even find them?”

“Wendy found them.” Webber corrected, hooting spider sound as they adjusted their grip on the basket, claws going under the leaves and blooms to find their other gift. “It's a big ol’ bush of flowers, but not bigger than us, and Wendy found it while heading to the graveyard.”

Maxwell twisted the stem in his hands, golden orange flower still fresh, and Webber was just about to continue when their claws brushed against something hard and shaped. With a chirp of excited spider sound, mandibles and limbs wiggling about, they tugged out the object by its rough string and waved it up to the old man, a spider smile morphing their features.

“Wendy wanted us to give this to you too, Mister Maxwell! She's getting better at making ‘em!”

Maxwell leaned down, squinted at the charm hanging from their claws, before gingerly taking it from them and giving it a better look.

“When we were explorin’ the flower bush, Wendy found a skeleton underneath it all! She said the bones were still good, so she's making things out of them now.” Webber puffed up, mandibles pulling in close, and they fumbled underneath their ruff of bristley spider fur about their neck for a moment before drawing out their own necklace. “See? She made this one for us!”

They showed it to Maxwell, cream bone white carved into shapes and pictures. Wendy had told them it was still rough and childish, not nearly good enough yet, but Webber thought it was the best thing ever.

They knew the beetle set into bone was a scarab beetle, and the wiggly sun encompassing it was really cool in their opinion.

Then again, anything Wendy made was really cool, so maybe they were a bit biased.

The charm in Maxwells hands had a rabbit skull, haphazardly carved with a pocket marked ovalish moon behind it, and Webber remembered the night before, as their friend inspected a fresh rabbit skull closely by the fireside. 

“...You will have to thank Wendy for me, Webber. Tell her I...appreciate...the gesture.”  
He turned the charm over, bone white ever so slightly yellowed, smudged a bit from his nieces fingers when she had worked on it, and Webber chirred happily, knowing he saw the little signature Wendy had set upon it, W.C.

Webber had thought that was great too. It reminded them of the gravestones that had names or letters carved into them, and they had asked Wendy last night what their last name should be.

She didn't really have any suggestions, but they really liked the idea of their name matching Wendys when written with just two letters, so secretly Webber decided to try and find a name that started with a C. If they couldn't think of anything, then they'd ask Wendy if taking her last name was okay.

“What do you plan to do with the rest of those then?” Maxwell looked to the basket of flowers in their claws, tucking the bone charm away into one of his suit jackets inner pockets, and Webber trilled, clicking as their mandibles waved about. Dropping their own charm to rest on their chest, they held up the basket, filled to the brim with orange and yellow and red blooms, healthy green stems and curly leaves, and they gave the old man a spider smile.

“We're gonna make wreaths out o’ them, and garlands too, for everyone!” They dug one of their claws into the flowers, gently brushing over the blossoms as their voice whistled. “Then, when we're all done with that, we're gonna go with Wendy and bring a bunch to the graveyard, to put on the graves!”

Maxwell raised an eyebrow at that, pursing his lips, and for a moment Webber had to stop themself from giggling; he looked like Miss Wickerbottom when she was confused!

“Those tombs are mostly empty, Webber. It would be a waste.”

Webber huffed, mandibles curling and waving their limbs as they tilted their head.

“Some of them are occupied, Mister Maxwell! Wendy and Abigail visit them all the time, and we think it would make them happy, to see flowers on the gravestones. Aaaand-” they whistled, drawing out the word in an almost childish sounding voice, mandibles wiggling and fangs flashing, “-it'll be like the Day of the Dead!”

The look Maxwell gave them was even more confused this time. “Day of the Dead?”

“Yeah Mister Maxwell!” They nodded excitedly, suddenly realizing something really important. Their friend didn't know what Day of the Dead was, just like Wendy!

It was kinda weird, in their opinion, but that just meant they'll have to talk about it again, which wasn't a problem at all.

“Its when we remember those who passed away, so they don't get forgotten. We used to go with our mom to the cemetery and leave flowers for everyone, even people we didn't know!” Webber churred, hopping from foot to foot, the basket of flowers shuffling in their arms. “An’ since there are so many gravestones here, we want to make sure they don't feel forgotten by us! These are the perfect flowers too, so now they won't feel so sad or lonely cause they'll know we're here and we remember them, at least a little!”

They chirped, tapped the scarab beetle and sun bone charm necklace on their chest, puffing up and adopting a different, quiet, tone.

“You wouldn't want to be forgotten, would you, Mister Maxwell?”

Webber wouldn't tell him, just like how Wendy wouldn't tell anyone but Abby, but seeing the torn suit on bleached bones and evidence of other things, blank ripped pages with the faint scent of shadow fuel and old, broken things, things Webber wasn't sure they should be trying to figure out, had been disquieting.

Wendy had pretended it hadn't bothered her, but Webber knew better. They also knew that asking those sorts of questions or being nosy about them never went well, so they made their own decision and turned a blind eye while their friend went about burying the evidence. The flowers were enough.

The old man had a strange, faded look on his face, made him look tired, more tired than even Wickerbottom when the hounds had attacked and destroyed almost everything in one big rush right before winter.

Webber remembered that, remembered staying in bed, getting sick and feverish. They remembered thinking that she was their old nana, curling up and holding her hand as she kept them company. Mister Wilson hadn't come back yet from the touchstone, and Miss Willow had been out for such a long time, saying they needed more firewood, that they'd freeze if they didn't get anymore soon. Their illness made them confused, and Miss Wickerbottom had patted them on the head and told them stories, old stories, of princesses and curses and wishes, as they lay dying in a stuffy warm tent.

When they woke up a few days later, scratching their way out of an effigy, they had made sure to thank her profusely.

Maxwells stance had fallen, dropped from the more adult look they were used to, distracted and not quite seeing them, so Webber took a few more flowers in hand, thick stems and leaves bunched in their claws. They held it all up, bright colors in contrast to their dark black fur and talons, and whistled to draw the old man's attention.

“Do you want to help us, Mister Maxwell? We're sure the dead’ll appreciate the thought!” They hesitated a moment, all of their eyes blinking out of sync. “No one wants to be forgotten.”

After a moment Maxwell accepted the flowers with the dip of his head, carefully and gently taking them in hand, the round blooms brushing against his leather gloves, and Webber nodded, limbs waving about in satisfaction.

They'll spread flowers and petals about the graveyard, put some extra special care on the tombstones, leave a few other offerings as well, like food and toys. The bone charm on their chest made them glow, a feeling of warmth at the gift their friend had made them, and they started off, glancing to watch Maxwell trail after them with slow, dejected steps.

Maybe it'll make him feel better too, they thought, and Webber whistled a spider tune along with their step.


	10. Demon

The spear ripped into warty flesh, a grind as more pressure had to be exerted for it to break through the inner skull, and the frog exhaled a low belch as it twitched, going limp in its death throes.

Wilson sighed, leaned on the spear handle for a moment just to make sure it was truly dead, before pulling back and tugging the weapon out in one smooth motion.

The frog, for its part, stayed dead. The smattering of the once horde, however, was still not.

One leapt by him, the wet smacking thud of its body in the grass making him wince, and Wilson readied his spear for another skewering before realizing that it wasn't headed for him.

After that, he decided to sit back a moment and watch as it hopped its way to the other man currently finishing off another of its kin.  
Maxwell just got out of the way of its tongue, almost falling as it burbled out a croak and blinked both its eyes at him, out of synch. And then he proceeded to smack it upside the head with the spear with an almost offended look.

Wilson couldn't help himself when the frogs spongy head bounced the spear back up, throat swelling as it croaked in retaliation; his laughter made the other man turn a glare to him, and it was enough for the amphibian to adjust its wet feet, open its mouth, and fling out its tongue in a slimy arc.

Seeing Maxwell flail around as the frog continued its rather unorthodox beating was almost as funny as when the other man got caught up with tentacles, though lacking the more bloody, dangerous aspect, and Wilson might have just stood there all day to watch him try to kill the damn thing. But then a chorus of ribbits and croaking started up behind them, the pond a throng of young frogs, and the spring rains were not going to be absent for very long.

Maybe he could catch one later, bring it back to camp and stow it in the other man's tent. Now that would be funny.

With that thought in mind Wilson swung the spear around, swiping a leaping frog from the air and smacking it into the ground, already turning the spear to deliver a death blow to its exposed belly. They were not the fastest creatures around, and he danced about a few flung tongues and hurtling bodies, putting space between them and himself as he backed off.

Maxwell still seemed to be having trouble, and the frog just seemed to be getting louder and louder, eyes blank as it blew up its throat in angry croaks.

“You're supposed to be stabbing them with this end.” Wilson turned about, keeping a side eye on the minor horde, and demonstrated by thrusting the spears pointy end down into the frog's skull, its eyes bulging as it warbled a death wheeze before going limp.

“That was what I was doing!” Maxwell hissed, struggling to get the sticky tongue off of him, brushing strands of slime from his arms. The chorus of frog voice rose, and Wilson hurriedly tugged his spear from the frogs corpse.

Or, at least tried to. The spear stuck fast, caved into the frogs cranium, and he grabbed it by both hands and wiggled it about, tugging the frogs corpse in the process.

Not paying much attention, he flailed as Maxwell shoved him out of the way, tripping as a round of slimy tongues flew past him.

“Here, damn it.” The old man's spear was shoved into his hands, and Wilson almost dropped it as the frogs all croaked in almost unison, glassy eyes fixed on him. There was a shiver in the air, a long, blackened shadow fluttering from Maxwell's hands to form a curled handle and an ornate blade of living darkness, and the hard glance the man shot him, slightly irritated, made him grumble and prepare himself.

Knowing that Maxwell wasn't usually so open to using his weapon made Wilson a little suspicious. But the old man nodded to him, slightly, before turning to swing his sword in a sharp arc, putting it into a bouncing frog and smoothly cutting its warty skin like butter, slicing it into two.

And he supposed that a horde of young frogs was more of a problem he needed to focus on. Not as if he can't bother Maxwell about it later.

Cutting the frogs down was just a matter of dodging, jumping from their tongues and attempting to stick them through the middle as quickly as possible. Still keenly remembering thunderstorms, flashes of lightning and pouring rain and hundreds upon hundreds of falling frogs, Wilson had a knack for skewering the slimy, bubbling things.

Their glassy, sightless eyes staring up at him still made him feel bad though. But food was food, and this was the most prominent source in the Spring.

And the younger the obnoxiously large amphibians were, he thought, driving his spear through the back of one brash frog and yanking it out with no trouble, the easier it was to eat. Not as tough or stringy.

The sun was setting by the time the horde was decimated, the scattered few hopping away with distressed croaks, back to their pond. Up above, Wilson taking a breather for a moment to have a look at the sky, thunder clouds rolling in, dark and rumbling ominously in the distance.

Looks like their reprieve was at an end.

“Disgusting.”

Wilson turned to watch Maxwell kick at a few corpses, slimy tongues lolling out in heavy ropes, and he heaved a sigh, rubbing at his forehead as he glanced around at the carnage. At least they'd have a lot of food on hand.

“Don't damage them too much, I'd rather not eat abused meat.” He squatted down to have a look over one particularly large frog, sliced unevenly in half. The shadowy fringes on its flesh was just now starting to dissipate, thin wormy tendrils wavering before fading away, and he made a face. Looks like some of this was going to taste a bit bitter now, if any of that residue stuck around.

Huh, maye that was why Maxwell didn't use that sword all too often. Left a bad taste in meat, that was for sure, but it stayed edible.

“It'll be dark soon.” He stood back up, glanced over just in time to see Maxwell watching him, and the older man face curled into a frown before he looked away irritably. “I hope we have enough room in the ice box for all of this.”

An answered grumble was all that he got, and with that Wilson got to work gathering the corpses up. They'd not all fit in a bag, so he made do with skewering them through the spear, a frog kabob of sorts.

Messy and rather disgusting looking, but he was able to fit more than he had hopped with the only disadvantage being that it was a little heavy.

Remembering that there was another spear available, Wilson hauled what he had over to Maxwell and without warning tossed him the skewer.

“See if you can fit more on that.” Maxwell fumbled with the corpses, staggering as a few almost slid from the spears shaft, and Wilson turned away as the man hissed out a few snide and rude complaints under his breath, frog blood ruining his suit along with the slime. 

It was getting easier and easier, ignoring all that. Hell, eventually he might be able to ignore Maxwell completely!

Like a Chester that he didn't actually care for all too much. But that was sort of degrading, comparing poor Chester to Maxwell. He'd need to think of something better.

Returning back to the stuck spear, almost a monument stuck fast through the frog's skull, Wilson got to work trying to pry it out of the corpse.

In the end, he had to shove a foot on its snout, bulging eyes glassy and pale, the slime from its discarded tongue and lips pooling disgustingly into the soggy grass. Ripping the spear from the skull sent globs of frog blood and grey matter about, thankfully not onto him, and its cracked, broken grin greeted him emptily as he tried to wipe the spear point off on the grass. 

Wilson, for all of his frustration with the time wasting thing, stuck his tongue out at it.

“How mature.” Maxwell had made his way over, spear in hand and frogs skewered on like peas in a pod, dripping frog blood onto his arm, which he seemed to be pointedly ignoring. More of their corpses were tied by their feet to the pack on his back, hanging from him grotesquely, and for that image alone Wilson made sure to turn and stick his tongue out at him for good measure, a huff as he put his hand on his hip and thumped the ground with the spears pointy end.

Maxwell rolled his eyes at him and bent down to scoop up the broken frog corpse by its leg, its long tongue flopping about, streaked from the blood oozing from its cracked skull.

And then they both watched as its weight adjusted, a gush of blood fell from its crooked jaws, and out thunked a thing.

They both stood there a moment, stunned, and then Wilson had the good mind to reach down and pluck the blood and drool slimed object up between thumb and forefinger, claws clicking on it lightly.

It was-

“Glasses?” Wilson squinted at them, got his other hand upon them and not minding the blood, carefully scraping the coagulated ooze from the lenses while still trying to not scratch them up. “How did it even get a hold of this thing?”

Maxwell didn't answer him, seemed unusually quiet, but Wilson was a little more interested in his new discovery than the unease coming off the other man in waves.

The lenses were intact, for the most part, some spider thin cracks decorating the surface, but the frames were a little worse off. Busted, twisted a bit oddly, metal morphed and dented, and the gore covering it didn't help with the picture.

“It's trash, Higgsbury, discard them and let's be on our way.” Wilson looked up to watch Maxwell shiver, the old man looking elsewhere with a set frown on his face. “It'll rain soon, and I'd rather be back at camp before nightfall.”

While he would like to argue on the value of the “trash” in his hands, Wilson did glance up to see those rolling clouds, a moment where the echo of a thunder crack reached his ears, and the sun was indeed setting quickly at their back.

“Alright then.” Maxwell gave him a pointed look, and Wilson drew himself up and folded the busted glasses as best as he could, stuffing them into his trouser pocket with as little subtly as possible, eyeing him carefully. “But I'm holding onto this.”

The old man almost looked like he wanted to argue, but then the fight deflated from him and he turned away, to the rest of the frogs they needed to gather up.

“Fine, but I want nothing to do with them.”

Wilson decided to keep his mouth closed at that, ignoring the irritated huff directed his way as he went about skewering corpses to his spear. It wasn't any of his business, truly, and odd things did show up every once in awhile, questions that no one ever liked hearing the answers to.

But as if that would stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more I have half done that I want to post, but that may take a bit...


	11. Monster Mash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to make anything for this years October, but I finally got off my butt and finished this.

Chester was a very good boy. They sat where their owners told them to sit, they went where they told them to go, and they held every little thing they'd shove into their mouth. They did everything any owner ever told them to do, and with how much they liked to say it, Chester knew they were a very good boy.

Their other half blinked wetly, pupil twisting around and around, as they huffed out a hot breath and sat, waiting, for their owners to stop arguing.

They did that a lot, they had noticed, and Chester coughed out a noise, massive tongue slipping from their jaws as they panted. But they were a very good boy, and so they were very patient.

“For the last time, Higgsbury, that was not what I had said!”

“Oh yeah?! And what else was it supposed to mean, tell me that!”

“Don't be so petty, you are obviously hearing things again, or at least trying to mishear everything I say, as if I would waste my breath.”

“Waste your breath!? Is that what this is, wasting your fucking breath!?”

“Language, Higgsbury, I thought you were a gentleman-”

“Gentleman this, asshole!”

There was a loud thwump, a resounding “Ow!”, and Chester licked their lips, adjusting their stubby legs to sit more comfortably. Their eye blinked away the watery blurriness, swirling around to watch as their owner attempted to duck from another thrown object, this time a shoe. The man was a little slow, however, and it got him in the shoulder, which made him whine out another sound and scramble away as a flurry of sticks and chunks of gold were pitched at him next.

“Is this how you are going to solve this issue, Higgsbury, acting like a child?!”

“I'm acting like a damn mature adult, thank you very much!”

Chester whined, quietly, as their other half twisted their pupil to look at their other owner, who currently looked rather red faced and very scowly. 

“This is your fault, not mine, and you just blaming it on me means you're acting more childish!”

“I'm not the one throwing things!”

“You would if you could!”

As the two bickered, Chesters owner sometimes grabbing at the nearest twig, rock, and on occasion large tool to throw, Chester slowly pulled their tongue back into their maw and heaved a canine sigh, blinking their one eye as they looked between them. And here Chester had thought they'd be going to the birch forest, to see Glommer! But maybe the trip will have to be put off now…

All because someone had lost the map.

Which was sort of confusing, because Chester could feel the rolled thing in their mouth, up against their tongue. One of their owners had given the thing to them to hold earlier this morning, and then had gotten distracted with making breakfast.

Breakfast! Thought Chester, closing their eye in remembrance. If they had a tail, they'd be wagging it right now, because breakfast had been eggs and bird and rabbit, and the eggs had been big ones too, blue and green! The spotted shells had been so nicely tossed to them too, so breakfast had been one of the best things of today!

The other best things of today had been when they had woken up in the tent of one of their owners and they had not been kicked out, only patted on the head and talked softy to! And another had been when their other owner had gotten tired from trying to knock trees over and sat on them to rest!

Even with the arguing, today has been a good day!

With this thought in mind, Chester blinked open their eye, brought back to the present by a simple idea. 

Slowly hauling themself up, tongue lolling out of their jaws, Chester boldly made their way over to their owner, who looked like he was threatening to throw a chunk of moonstone at their other owner.

“-and that's why you should've just fucking stayed-”

Before another word could be uttered, Chester belched loudly, coughed up a glob of saliva, and then proceeded to shove out the drool covered, rolled up map onto their owners shoes.

“...oh, there it is.”

For a moment there was silence, stiff, but then Chesters owner bent down to pick the map up in his claws, pausing a moment to scratch Chester behind the horns.

“...Good boy, Chester.”

Chester opened their mouth in an almost grin, tongue falling heavily out as they panted happily, eye blinking up to their owner. They liked being told they were good, because Chester knew they were very good!

“It was there the whole time?” Their other owner had made his way over, looking a little hunched, arms crossed over his chest and face sour. “Who put it there in the first place?”

“I should be asking you that.” Their owner shook out the map, flicking drops of drool everywhere and earning a disgusted huff from their other owner, who flinched back for a moment. The movement seemed to catch the short man's attention, and with that Chester backpedaled out of the way, sitting down with a huff as they got to talking.

“Nothing hit you too badly, did it?”

“Hmph, don't act as if you care, Higgsbury, and as if your measly little aim could actually do anything to me.”

“Don't start, alright, I was throwing some heavy stones…”

“And that wasn't my fault.”

“Who was the one to start the fight, huh? Now stop being stupid and let me see-”

“I am not hurt-”

“Yes, yes you are, I have eyes you know-”

Chester gruffed out a sound, licked their lips as they panted, and it was sound enough for their owners to stop bickering and look over at them.

They were a good boy, and they listened to orders, but sometimes their owners were just plain daft. And Chester wanted to go to see Glommer today.

One of their owners sighed, ran his claws through his hair as he looked at the map in his talons, and their other owner made a face, still looking disheveled and unhappy.

“Fine then, fine. We should probably get going, if we want to get there before nightfall; I don't want to miss another full moon.”

“That wasn't my fault either.”

“Of course not, of course not.”

Chesters other half blinked wetly, looking back and forth between their owners as one looked a bit crushed at the lackluster response and the other turned away, to spread the drooly map out onto a chest. Chester shuffled their paws in the dirt, pulling their tongue back into their mouth before heaving back up into a stand, waddling over to their unhappy looking owner.

They didn't earn much besides a disgusted look when they pressed themself to his legs, not quite heavy enough to shove him over but almost, but the man heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes as he patted them between the horns.

“This disgusting creature causes more problems than it's worth.”

“Hey, don't say that about Chester!” Chester perked up, their other owner turning a scowled frown to the man currently petting them. “He's a good boy!”

“Hm.”

The hand on them pulled back, a sniff as their owner turned away, heading to another chest and opening it up. 

Chester had little thought on what everyone was actually doing, nor did they care too much, tongue slipping from their maw as they panted patiently. All they cared about was who would end up holding their other half, and with that in mind they wandered over to the firepit, and where their eye was set up.

Snuffing quietly, tongue lolling over their eye and making them squint and blink the drool away, Chester huffed in satisfaction, sitting down heavily. They were ready to go.

Their owners, however, were not, and the two men exchanged a few words back and forth, stuffing backpacks and getting warmer clothing together, vests and hats and stones.

Chester didn't quite understand why they did that, the cold and heat not much of an issue for them most times, but their owners were weird and had their own rules they followed.

Like how one of their owners liked sticking living things in their mouth, fat rabbits with their ears tickling the roof of Chesters mouth, frogs sliding about in their maw and even bees, mosquitos crawling about, trying to poke their way through Chesters teeth.

Once, Chester had a big egg in their mouth, stuffed aside while their owner got to work plucking the large, very dead mother bird, and even though their owner forgot about it Chester hadn't. The egg had grown warm in their mouth, shook and cracked open, and that, in the end, had really surprised their owner when the newborn chick had burst from their mouth right into the mans lap at breakfast time the next morning.

And their other owner wasn't all that different, dark scented butterflies carefully deposited into their maw, fluttering and licking at their gums, slimy or spiky or twitchy or even wiggling flowers oozing darkness settled in big bundles near the back of their closed throat, and, at times, when they had hiked a good long while and no one else was around, their owner would even share a bit of his slimy, gloppy shadow tar, consuming his own portion and watching as it stuck in Chesters teeth and to the roof of their mouth.

They didn't quite like the taste or anything, but sometimes their owner would have a rare laugh when they flopped over and licked at the spicy gelatin sticking to their mouth, so it was all good in Chesters faint opinion. Even if it sometimes made them hungrier, heavier, stomach opening up even wider than ever.

Then their other owner would would yell and argue, cause Chesters fur would shift black and their teeth would go rotten. Chester didn't like it when that happened.

Right now, Chester glowed golden, or at least that was what one of their owners liked to say. Their other owner would say that they were the same drooly beast as ever, and that he much preferred the extra space.

And then they'd argue again. Chester had realized early on that the two men argued a lot more than any other owners they've had.

As they waited for their owners to get their things together, tongue pooling drool to stick in their rugged fur, Chester daydreamed about breakfast and wiggly beasties and sticky jelly spice tar. The full moon tonight was going to be real pretty, and they were excited.

Glommer was a good friend; she helped Chesters owners into not arguing as much. Chester couldn't wait to see her again.

Their owners had gotten to another argument again, both hovering near the icebox and blaming each other for something or other, or maybe it was about something completely different, and Chester panted, waiting patiently.

Tonight would be a good night, just everyone see! Full moon, Glommer and her pretty, smelly stinky flower, and their two favorite owners!

Well, every owner was their favorite owner, especially if their other half was being held. Still, these two Chester knew, and remembered very well.

From long ago, even, back when the air was all dusty and stale, when it was darker and gray, when there were no light stars in the sky. Things were different now, and even they were very different now too!

But, as they gruffed canine sound, waited patiently as their other half swirled their pupil about, watched the scene of their two owners bicker even louder now, pointing to the icebox and at each other, flailing like usual, it was almost as if nothing had changed at all really.

"And where the hell did all of it even go?! We had a whole batch of twenty, I counted it myself, you better not have snuck off with it-"

"You think I want to eat your stupid jerky? It's tasteless, not to mention too dry, do you know how much chewing you have to do with even a singular piece-"

"Why do I even bother making enough for you, when you're going to just complain? You better have not thrown it out, it was still fresh-"

"Why would you even assume I'd trash perfectly edible, if flavorless, food-"

Chester huffed, pulled their tongue back into their mouth as their eye darted about between the two arguing men, a trail of drooly slime coating their fur.

It was sorta weird, that they were arguing about jerky.

Since Chester was pretty sure they could feel a big bundle of dry meaty pieces all wrapped up in their mouth, right at the base of their big old tongue.

Their eye blinked slow, still slimy and damp, watching the finger pointing and now how the voices rose to almost yelling. 

Huh. Maybe it'll be a little longer yet before Chester got to see Glommer.

Their tip of their tongue poked from their furry lips and big jutting teeth, a heavy canine sigh. 

Not much has changed, not really.


End file.
